Last Laugh?

I’ve never been a big fan of doing things backwards. Sure I procrastinate from time to time and might even be guilty of pure stupidity every once in a while, but I like things in a certain order. You know, the cart before the horse.


Similarly, I’ve never been a fan of Kris Kross the teenage wrap duo from the early 90's popular for wearing their clothing backwards; so you can imagine my surprise when I saw an 80 year old man walking through Costco with his polo shirt on backwards. I was running a few errands the day after Thanksgiving and noticed the old guy being led by the hand through the crowds by an equally elderly woman. Presumably his wife, but what do I know? If the roles were reversed and it was me, stooped and half out of my mind, I like to think Linda would at least mention the shirt thing. “Oh that’s just terrific Christian,” she might say, “You’ve gone and put your shirt on backwards - again!” Or at least, “Hey Bozo, you might want to look in the mirror before we leave.” I like to imagine 40 years from now she’ll at least give me that much.

I wondered if maybe this guy was a complete jerk to his wife through 62 years of marriage and this was her passive aggressive way of paying him back. She might say something like, “Your elevator might not make it past the 2nd floor anymore, Honey, but I’ll be damned if you won’t look like a complete idiot every time we go out in public.”

I really have no idea but as this wizened old couple passed I swear I caught the tiniest of smirks on the old guys face, a sort of last laugh perhaps?

Be good to those you love.

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Airsoft

“Corn. What’s up?” This is how I begin pretty much every conversation I have with my younger brother Graham. He begins the same way with me. Conversations used to begin with “cornhole” which was an abbreviation of “cornholio” and that, somehow, came from the days of Beavis and Butthead mixed with the fact that Graham’s middle name is Thorne. So Thorne became Corn and it’s just stuck.

“Corn. I need a new airsoft gun; something more powerful than the spring-loaded one I own now. I’m looking at either CO2 or Gas powered.”

I’ve been researching airsoft guns lately in preparation for the upcoming holidays where a bunch of friends and I get together with some of the teenagers from my church and spend an hour or so shooting each other in a darkened gymnasium. It’s a nice opportunity to take a bit of aggression out on the punks I attend service with and since Graham is into this sort of thing, I’ve been calling him a lot lately for advice. He and our brother Trevor run an online knife company and I also figured with their connections they might be able to help me out with a deal.


It’s Trevor’s company and though they work together, sitting a few feet from one another all day every day, to an outsider they appear almost as independent contractors and if I’d never visited I would have imagined they worked in completely separate offices. My phone calls with either one tend to go like this, “Well, is Trevor there right now? He is? Well then why don’t you just ask him for me?”

“Just call him,” Graham will say.

“Really?” I’ll ask. “But he’s right there. Like 4 feet away.”

“Yeah, just call him.”

So this is what I’m up against if I’m hoping to score a deal on a new gun. I’ll keep you posted.

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NASCAR aint so tough

Most people I work with eat on the second floor of our building, buying pre-made sandwiches and drinks from what they refer to as “the coffee cart.” The cart is actually an “L” shaped counter permanently attached to the floor with a cooler on one for the sandwiches and drinks. The girl working behind the counter is slight of build with dark medium length hair and she never smiles. I think she’s bored. I have never bought more than an occasional drink from the cart preferring to go out for lunch where I can spend a few minutes away from my desk.


Yesterday as I sat down to eat a very tall man caught my attention. He wore a black leather bomber jacket with the NASCAR logo embroidered across the chest. Alongside the orange,red and blue NASCAR logo was a second embroidery for the television network ‘TNT’, which presumably is where one might find NASCAR races. His hair was honey blond and feathered back from a part down the center and sported stripey highlights. The jeans this man wore were skin tight making his thin frame appear even thinner. What really caught my eye, though were the boots that his skinny legged jeans were tucked in to. They were black like his jacket with long pointed toes capped with decorative silver tips. Thin leather straps wrapped around at the ankles and had silver stars hanging along their length making a sort of star anklet. Rather than cowboy boots, which would have been forgettable and never would have caught my attention, these boots were loose around the man’s legs. I would have guessed these were women’s boots if they hadn’t been so large. Like fairy boots for grown men, prompting the thought, “House divided.” Tough NASCAR guy up top, dainty fairy boot prancer on the bottom half.

I really enjoy my lunchtime.

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But that was years ago

“You’re gross.” This was what Linda said to me the other evening while discussing with Gabrielle, our youngest, why she needed to wash her hair more than once a week. It’s these little life lessons that have been popping up lately at an alarming rate that prompted Linda’s disparaging comment. Then just this morning Leah exclaimed, “I don’t need to shower, I showered Saturday.” Which, in turn, prompted another claim from Linda, “They get this from you. You’re gross.”

It’s true; I might have mentioned that back in college I won a contest to see who could go the longest without washing his hair. And I might have gone an extra week after the last of my competition fell off at week 3, just to put an explanation point on my dominance, but that was years ago. Besides, the contest was to go without washing one’s hair not go without showering. Nobody went a whole month without taking a shower.

And sure, when I was 14 my brother Cameron and our two friends John and Bryan might have gone Sunday to Sunday without showering but like I explained to Linda, “We spent every day all day swimming in their reservoir. That’s 8 hours of lake cleaning every day, which at 14, is at least as good as 5 minutes of shower cleaning.”

“I’ve never felt that clean after being in a lake,” Linda said. “You’re gross, and now our girls have taken after you.”

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Pearl Jam - Backspacer

I can’t imagine working through a season of design without music. Good music inspires me so I’m constantly on the hunt for something new. My tastes are fairly broad ranging from Elvis Costello to Black Sabbath and from the Kings of Leon to the Kinks. The only music I really don’t like is country, which in my opinion is fingernails on the chalkboard.

Several years ago I got on this Brazilian jazz kick and discovered Baden Powell. His father was a huge Boy Scouts of America fan and named Baden after the founder of modern day scouts. I’d highly recommend checking some of his music out but today would like to talk about the new Pearl Jam album Backspacer.

I own 4 or 5 of Pearl Jam’s albums and find I usually enjoy about half of the songs on any particular album. Sure, Ten is phenomenal but outside of that I find about half their work is, for me, just OK. Within the Seattle grunge genre I’d much rather listen to Nirvana or Sound Garden both whose lead singers fascinate me.

I bought Backspacer last week on a Monday while on my way into work and began listening to it on the rest of the drive in. I have to say, there isn’t a song on this new album I don’t like. Give it a listen while I give it 5 stars.

On the music front, who can't you live without?

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The cost of a life

Yesterday Gabrielle spent the day at a friend’s house. Recently they bought a dog and she was anxious to see it. She got home around dinnertime and while we ate, her sisters wanted a report. “What color is it? How big is it? Is it a puppy? How old is it?” They peppered her with questions, which she did her best to answer.

“They rescued the dog from a shelter,” Linda filled in, “And when they picked it up they were told it was 9 months old.” Apparently, though, the dog has had some trouble and spent some time at the vet getting fixed up. It was through the vet our friends discovered maybe the puppy was only 4 or 5 months old. They also discovered there’d be a hefty bill to accompany this new information.

This is nothing, though. A few weeks ago at work I was setting up for a big presentation coming the following week. It’s a tedious process where I cover the walls with my seasonal designs with each style arranged alongside the various colors and patterns it will be offered in. Imagine the many stripes a golf polo might come in then multiply it by 25 - 30 polos and you begin to get the idea of what the walls look like.

I prefer to go through this process alone, often wearing my iPod to keep me company but on this day there happened to be another designer in the room along with one of our merchandisers. I’ll call her Nancy and the merchandiser Jared. Nancy had recently broken up with her boyfriend over a misunderstanding and was relaying her story to Jared. It seems the boyfriend was unemployed and spent most of his time on the couch while Nancy worked. This went on for several months and apparently, "Not once did he get his lazy butt off easy street and hunt for work." While for most, this alone would cause a break-up, Nancy is patient and tried to be understanding. It wasn’t until the boyfriend left the front door open, letting Nancy’s dog run into the street and get hit by a car that the relationship became irreparable.

“How bad was the accident? Jared asked.

“Well, it cost me $20,000 to keep the little guy alive.” She said this without skipping a beat, in a matter of fact way that suggested, “who wouldn’t spend 20 grand to keep a dog alive.”

In my opinion this is absolute insanity but we're all different.

What’s the most you’d spend to keep a pet alive?

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Reuse-aphobia

I think it’s fair to say that freaks come in all shapes and sizes, but at our local market they tend to come in clumps. This is a boutique market containing it’s own in-store barbeque which serves up smoky goodness in salmon, steak, and chicken. There’s also a deli counter reminiscent of New York City and made to order Chinese take-out. The butcher is actually a butcher and offers personal cuts of meat and on weekends there’s even a wine steward to help with one’s pairing.

Linda and I use it more for convenience than full blown groceries but after seven years of popping in a few times a week and several times on Saturday, we’ve become friends with a few of the checkers.

One in particular, Brittany, is especially chatty and if pressed even the slightest, loves to dish. A while back is noticed a woman a couple spots ahead of me in line with a cart full of toilet paper and decided to ask Brittany when my turn came. The carts in our market aren’t the true full-sized versions like those found in more pedestrian grocery stores, but still, the cart was piled quite high.

“Hey Brittany, what’s up with the toilet paper?” I asked.

“Oh her? Well. . .” And what I came away with was shocking. It seems this woman is a germaphobe mixed with a fear of who knows what. Apparently she buys a cartload of toilet paper each week because she is only willing to use each roll one time. Once finished with her business, whatever remains on the roll is discarded and replaced with a fresh, virgin roll.

I’m not exactly sure how Brittany discovered this little tidbit but the good news is, TP woman has a son and he’s more messed up than his mother.

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Lunge, hike, lunge, hike.

With three of my four daughters playing soccer, my weekends tend to get a bit hectic. This past weekend, though, was accompanied by heavy rain and thunderstorms. In Portland we play through any amount of rain but the first sign of lighting has everyone running like scared little rabbits. Gretchen’s game was cancelled after 15 minutes of play following two flashes of lighting. Her games last an hour and a half and since this week’s game began at 12:30, I dropped her off in search of lunch and missed both the thunder and the lighting, returning just in time to see her scrambling off the field. Ordinarily I enjoy her games but was happy this week when I didn’t even have to step out of my car in to the pouring rain.

Leah’s game was scheduled for 1:30 and was also cancelled, leaving Margaret to play the only game this week, which she endured through the absolute worst weather of the day. Heavy rain, high winds and dropping temperatures combined to make it nearly unbearable. Wrapped in three coats and boots, I cheered from the sidelines alongside her coach while the team riding the bench shivered beneath an easy-up tent.

Ordinarily the parents gather to form a cheering section on the opposite side of the field congregating on cheap folding camp chairs. This week, though, I wanted to give Margaret a little extra support and stayed on the team side of the field. Pep talks, shouting and whistling, you know, the usual sideline stuff expected from parents, which, for me, is the kind of behavior that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.

And with good reason, too. A few weeks ago Linda and I were at one of Gretchen’s games where we visited with our friend Mary on the sideline. The day began with rain but turned sunny a few hours before the game, which can have an effect on people here in Oregon. For Linda, Mary, and me it had the effect of us peeling back our coats and leaving our umbrellas at home. Footloose and fancy free, one might say, which left us laughing casually when Mary’s little boy ate berries off some unknown shrub. “Kids,” she said, “They just want to put everything they find in their mouths,” and then we laughed a little bit more.

While the effect from this brief respite from the rain had me in a t-shirt, it was nothing compared to its effect on one of the other parents. One of the fathers, whom I’ll call Frank, was dressed in a white mesh running shirt with matching white and blue running shoes. Frank also wore a pair of thin grey warm-up pants that stretched tight as he bent to touch his toes. He was facing away from us and while I wouldn’t consider him fat, no one would mistake him for being fit either. Each bend seemed to reveal more and more as the fabric stretched taught against his skin. Following the toe touching he turned to face us then proceeded to hike his pants up uncomfortably high, which, apparently, was in preparation for his next routine - deep lunges. This routine went on for several minutes, lunge, hike, lunge, hike and with each hike he’d inch the elastic waistband higher than the previous time all the time facing us for his little performance. It was uncomfortable so we laughed a bit more.

So, as I stood in the freezing rain this past Saturday, cheering for Margaret a bit louder than usual I thought, “at least I’m standing upright covered in many, many protective layers.”

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